


Blood Tests

by LSilvertongue



Category: Newsflesh Trilogy - Mira Grant, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Oneshot, i rarely write angst it just proves how much I love this crossover, johnlock plus zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 19:17:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3661857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LSilvertongue/pseuds/LSilvertongue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John in post-zombie apocalypse London, running for their lives</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Tests

There's trying to be quiet in the field, and there's running for your life, the infected so hot on your heels that panting a little more harshly won't really make a difference.

Sherlock's hand was tight in his; half the time he was yanking, the rest he was being yanked, but it didn't really matter. John's lungs were burning - not 'oh good, I'm exercising' burning, but the painful, last-ditch efforts to sprint.

And the moans were just getting louder.

" _John_!" It was little more than a gasp. Sherlock wasn't as fit as John, his stint in the army having instilled a need for frequent workouts, and so if he was feeling the strain, there was no way Sherlock would be able to keep going for long.

" _What_?!" There was no more breath for anything longer.

A left, a right, and oh God, the walls of the half-ruined buildings were only getting narrower. Sherlock had better know where he was leading them, or they'd be dead before long.

And Sherlock, _of course_ , skidded to a halt.

"Cover me!"

Protesting would have been foolish, although not as foolish as stopping in the middle of an unsecured alley, with zombies entering from at least one opening.

A deafening squeal heralded the fact that Sherlock was doing _something_ \- good, they weren't being suicidal for nothing - but John was too busy aiming to care. The fourth zombie fell - maybe the third, hopefully the fourth - and Sherlock grabbed his hand again, half bullying him up the ladder he'd somehow managed to pull down. A desperate scramble (why oh why had he allowed Sherlock to make him go first?) later and they sat, panting on the roof of a pre-Rising apartment block.

London was a death trap of a city, and if there was no other choice, John wouldn't stop here for the world.

"It's secure." The wheeze in Sherlock's voice betrayed just how close they'd come to collapsing. "They won't be able to climb up."

Numb, he waited for the laughter, the adrenaline. Because it was coming, right? They weren't safe, not, yet but Mycroft could get them down, so long as they had clean bloo-

Blood tests.

He pulled a pair from his pack, sliding one over to Sherlock and preparing for the usual speech to get him to use it. It was confidence that prompted Sherlock to be so recalcitrant when it came to testing himself. He was incredibly skilled in the field; more so than John, who had brawn but far less of the genuine inherent talent.

He slid the testing unit onto his finger without complaint, and maybe that was the first sign that things-

That things were not good.

He didn't feel the pain of his own test. Sherlock's unit - ahead of his, because when wasn't he ahead of John? - was already beginning to slow.

"No." Was that his voice? It wasn't Sherlock's, it was horrified, sick. So it must have been his. "No. No, no, no, _no no no no no no_!"

Sherlock hadn't even opened his eyes. "Yes. Sorry about that." He looked - outwardly - the picture of calm. Like he wasn't going into amplification, like hanging out on the top of a roof was the way they spent their free time. But when John shifted - standing to do what, he didn't know - Sherlock lurched to his feet, staggering to the edge of building and imploring John with eyes that were already beginning to darken. "Take one-" He cleared his throat, the normally-smooth baritone hitching and breaking, and John noticed that the gun was in his hands, aimed carefully at the ground between their feet, "Take one step closer to me, John, and I'll jump."

Sherlock's testing unit clattered to the floor, red lights blinking, and John held up his hand, his own still clamped over his finger. "There's no need. That last one's aim was better than mine, you know."

There was no difference between the two units. Both gave the same verdict, and neither were interested in mercy.

Two strides, and Sherlock was in his arms - or maybe he in Sherlock's. It didn't matter. They'd get their last embrace, their last kiss, even if it tasted of tears and desperation.

The sensation of cold metal at his temple was unsurprising. His gun was at Sherlock's head. It was only fair that Sherlock's would be at his.

"John." Sherlock was crying. So was he. "John, I don't know my name."And damn his physique, because he would be further gone. " _John_."

"Your name is Sherlock." He choked out, then pressed his lips into another desperate kiss. "William Sherlock Scott... Watson." At the end, he lied, because it was his fault their fingers were bare of rings, no matter how much Sherlock had longed for it.

"Three." He squeezed his eyes shut, found Sherlock's free hand with his own.

"Tw-"

**Author's Note:**

> The premise for this (short) fic comes from Mira Grant's Newsflesh trilogy. You should read it, it's beautiful.


End file.
